THE KNOWLEDGE

by Scrambles

I knew I was in Yass. I knew I was in a McDonalds. I wasn’t sure of much else.

Barefoot and sunburnt, my body launching a violent rebellion beneath me for all the punishment bestowed on it over the past weekend, I cast my mind back to the events and follies that led me to the cold, judgmental tiles of a fast food establishment…

I would say it was all mostly Daz’s fault, as I had been relieved of my license some weeks earlier and it was he alone who had selflessly organised a ride for me down to Phillip Island with his brother Bowen. This meant I was to be part of the Tactical Tim Tam and Illicit Substance Response Unit, which spells FUN no matter what godless language you speak.

So it was sometime before the sun the previous Thursday morning that we began our journey.

THE MORNING

The sky was still black when I received an abusive phone call from Bly. Turns out he and most of the riding party were at Pheasants Nest, as they had been for the last hour, waiting for us to arrive.

Darren had taken off ahead of us with an impressive growl from his Speed Triple, leaving Janice, Bowen and myself bringing up the rear in the Ford Territory. The hipflask of Maker's Mark had barely made one lap around the car when my phone rang with an unknown number. The only person who rings me at this hour is my mum.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

"Passing the M4"

"Yeah? Well it’s six thirty!" *click*

I had no idea what I had done to upset my mother. I reminded myself to send flowers when I returned.

An hour later saw us link up with the rest of the fabulously charismatic riding party comprising of Bly, Brad, Tim, My Mate Jeff, Richard, Leon and Margaret. A more rag-tag group was impossible: a Benelli, a ZX-9, a CB-F, a Speed Triple, a ZX-6, a Ducati and a V-Star all sat patiently waiting for their respective pilots to embark on adventure. It was magical, like watching Top Gun for the first time. I decided that Bly was Iceman and Richard was Meg Ryan.

Tim. Doing that scary John Goodman Oh Brother Where Art Thou Bible salesman thing.

THE HUME

What a soul destroying, boring-arse, prick of a thing the Hume is. It just stretches on relentlessly, distorting time and space as it goes.

It’s the Venus fly trap of roads.

"Let’s go down the Hume," you’ll say. "It’s the most direct route". "Wow! Good idea, let’s make you Road Captain!", your friends will cheer.

Then the pain and anger start.

A few hours staring at a straight highway and you and your riding party begin to wonder if this was the best idea. By Yass you are mad. You want to turn off, you really do, but you have crawled into the Hume’s gaping maw, and now it has you.

Not us though. Oh no. We only spent a relatively short time on the Bastard Highway; a time spent alternating between sleep and whiskey. We talked of the big issues: long lost loves, the mission of the universe and why Airwaves gum is far better than any other brand of minted confectionary.

We were only with the riding party long enough to see Tim get nailed by the slimy Filth, who by later accounts were good enough to knock the charge down a peg so as he may continue riding, thus increasing the chance of him getting caught again and funnelling more money into the coffers of the state. Bless them.

It wasn’t long before we turned off.

THE RAIN

It was a light mist at first, but as we snaked south east it became heavier and heavier, bringing with it a violently chilling wind. The rain cracked and splattered across the windscreen, strong enough to wash the sin off a stripper. Trees sagged helplessly and the road was littered with bark, braches and the odd koala, but the car was warm, the substances questionable and the company uplifting, so we cared not for the miserable, soaked faces of those we passed.

I should mention that it was never our group that wore such sad visages, oh no. It is a testament to BIKE ME! that we all seem to be truly in fevered lust with our motorcycling mistress and despite the driving rain, icy winds and jibes from the pricks in the support vehicle there was not a single complaint.

Masters of their domain. Kings among men.

My Mate Jeff then succumbed to too much Tim Tam and dropped his bike in the servo. HUZZAH!

We didn’t laugh for too long though, for the clouds were black and we had many miles to travel.

THE MOUNTAIN

The mountain was cold. The kind of biting, scything cold that permeates your soul, chills your bones and jars your thoughts.

We had just spent the better part of two hours traversing back roads and were now snaking our way up and around a slick, fog shrouded mountain. We had long ago lost sight of the others and weren’t even particularly sure if they were ahead or behind, what road they had taken or what state they were in. We applauded ourselves for being such a good support vehicle.

Soon, we emerged at the top to a closed road, thick snow and an enveloping eerie silence. There was such majesty to be felt there, perched atop some of Australia’s most breath-taking and awe-inspiring scenery.

The mountain was speaking to me. It told me to bring back 80’s speed metal.

So I rolled anothery as Bowen checked his phone. No messages. Best we figured; either no one had died, or they all had, so we killed time by throwing snow balls at Janice. Ever tried throwing something when you’re off your nut? Not easy. We soon grew tired of this and decided to go back down the mountain to roll the dice with the possibility of linking up with the riding party.

We spent a few minutes hunched over the dashboard, peering into the distance at a lump of wood trying to figure out if it was a person or, indeed, a lump of wood. I fingered my knife…those bats were not going to get me. No way.

By the grace of Allah, Bly suddenly appeared out of the gloom and raced off in the opposite direction. We gave chase back up the mountain to the tiny mining outpost and Daz, Richard, My Mate Jeff and Brad turned up soon after. Something was afoot. Even in our drug addled state we could tell all was not well, we had lost the V-Star and Richard’s slumped shoulders told an interesting tale.

It would appear that Rich had lost the front and skidded down the road. He seemed fine in a sad, broken spirited kind of way. His Foran pipe however did not. He had won the battle, but that poor pipe had lost the war and it hung from his right hand side as a bitter and twisted ghost of it’s once former self. His expression was not one of a happy man, but I knew he would not surrender. We were men on a quest.

The folded Foran of the Baron von Tiki

Daz killed time by throwing more snow balls at Janice.

Daz, killing time

We fuelled and made our way off the mountain, retracing our steps back through the snow, which soon turned to sleet, which then turned to rain. The wind never lessened.

THE PUB

We eventually pulled up at the Tooma Pub amidst a brief period of sun. I sat across the road and watched the faces of each rider as he pulled in and disrobed. It was what I imagine the faces of soldiers recently returned from a tour to be; worn, tired, and taut with fatigue.

The mood was sombre; luckily the food and beer were not.

We fed, watered, shivered and explored the amazing little pub. There were two boxer dogs roaming the bar. Bly got lost coming back from the toilets.

After a while a bit of the old fire was back in the group. The rain appeared to be patchy at best, but that was the best we could hope for. The V-Star arrived unexpectedly: we were back to combat strength. It was still wet, cold and blustery, but we set off once again.

Suddenly, God dropped an eccie.

Dismounting outside the Tooma pub